


Little Black Book

by lameafpun



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga), Soul Eater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Imprisonment, Mental Instability, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Straight Up Abuse, reader is kira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23597242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: Life is monotony. The only thing that's getting Soul through the boring day to day is Kira and reading of their vigilantism. That is, at least, until Lady Luck deigned to smile on him on a Thursday night between deliveries.(you were doomed the moment he opened the door)
Relationships: Soul Eater Evans/Reader
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

Soul clocks out with a stretch and a groan as he feels the muscles in his back ache. However steady work in the warehouse was he was slowly reconsidering his motivation to keep the job. The people were inconsequential, the work repetitive, and he could practically hear Lisa’s insistence on how it was “beneath someone as elevated as him.” He rolled his eyes. If he ever forgot how glad he was at leaving her behind . . . nah, that’s in the permanent memory bank. 

Half-hearted farewells follow him as he exits the warehouse — a few of his coworkers who still believed in getting him to “come out of his shell.” Soul scoffed. 

Idiots. 

White light burns his eyes; he’d forgotten to turn the brightness down on his phone. A hissed curse under his breath falls flat into the silence of the night as he rubs the spots out of his vision. 

Darkness mode on. There. 

Now, for his favorite part of the night (in the back of his mind Soul wonders what that says about his life. He thinks he was probably doomed when he reread the entire thread and saw that he could make a full page of just his input on Kira). 

**Welcome to the Online Message Boards**

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■ 

**Topic: Kira**

**In: Boards ► Places ► (XEEX) ► Forums ► PSA ► Mysterious Deaths**

**(Showing Page 1 of 20)**

**Conceptualist** (Original Poster) 

Posted on December 4, 20XX:

Ok, so this is the the latest “mysterious death” that’s popped up in the news. Just for those new to everything there’s been a chain of criminals who have just dropped dead in some totally unexplainable circumstances. The first was a guy jailed for manslaughter eaten by crows — straight out of Birds — then another in the same jail who just had a heart attack which, while it wasn’t initially suspicious, was something I looked at after another three died in the same way in as many days. Big media isn’t covering this story, so here’s a place to record the deaths as well as the character behind this all. 

(EDIT: i linked the articles so msg me if they aren't working)

**Sothoth** (News Guy)

Posted on December 4, 20XX: 

There was a smaller thread a while back w the crow murder calling the swarm “Kira.” 

**(Showing Page 6 of 20)**

**GrammerisCool** (Wordsmith)

Posted on December 8, 20XX: 

The likelihood that this really is a person seems iffy to me. These all just seem like accidents — unfortunate yes, but accidents nonetheless. Heart attacks aren’t some sort of eldritch horror. And in the case that this was a purposeful series of events — “Kira” was able to kill six people while in two jails separated by a whole county. If this really is a group I don’t think this bodes well. What gives a singular entity the right to mete out “justice” as opposed to the systems we already have in place? Nobody is infallible. 

**Tebrino99**

Posted on December 8, 20XX: 

y r yall so set on this being a bad thing????? kera is doing us a service geting rid of scum

**xXGunslingerHatXx** (rootin-shootin extraordinair)

Posted on December 8, 20XX: 

Kira killed the guy who ran over my sister and her kid while the courts only gave him a few years because his daddy had money. Far as I’m concerned, he’s doing what I couldn’t. Kira is a hero. 

**(Showing Page 20 of 20)**

**Conceptualist** (Original Poster) 

Posted on January 24, 20XX:

Another heart attack at the local prison

Heart pounding in his ears, Soul clicked on the link to the article with only a cursory glance to the actual headline. The him of yesteryear would have scoffed. The him of yesteryear was also a much less enthusiastic person as a whole. He’d never put much stock into conspiracy theories and dismissed those who engaged with them as loonies. Not to say that a lot of them didn’t require the ownership of a tinfoil hat, but this one was considerably more legitimate than those. Heart attacks were one thing and the murder (he appreciated that a lot, as macabre the whole thing was) was another. 

Cold bites into his skin as he skims the article. Keys jingle in his pocket. It wasn’t an overly long article, just a few paragraphs. Skimpy. He’s finished with it before he reaches his car even with his slow reading speed. A frown mars his face as he turns the key in the ignition. Not even his favorite music station can get his mind off it and so he settles in for another sleepless night of deliveries. 

He’s on autopilot. The walk up to the house is unhurried and he knocks on the door with the same lackluster energy. A faceless person answers the door with a smile that his eyes skate over neatly as he hands over the package of food. 

“Thanks, man. Have a g’night.” 

“You t—“ Caffeine that had been lying dormant now helps his heart to jump start in what could have been mistaken for a heart attack. A black book lay innocently on the table meant for keys and bits and bobs with the words _Death Note_ written on the front in a decidedly very edgy font — he’s just found Kira. “You’re Kira.” 

The faceless gray blah fog that blankets them is all at once yanked away. Suddenly, he’s standing in front of a girl who looks altogether much too mousey and timid to be the real-life boogeyman he’d been obsessing about for the past month. His phone clatters to the ground. Glass shatters. Must’ve been the screen. 

Is this what excitement feels like? A balloon is expanding in his chest, leaving no space for him to suck in air or the blood pulsing through his system?

“What?” She — Kira, this is _Kira_ — squeaks. Her head snaps to the side and spots what he’s staring at. The Death Note. An uneasy laugh is forced from her throat as she tries to move in front of it. “I don’t — I mean, I don’t even know who that is!” 

Yeah, he isn’t buying that. 

Underneath his stare Kira quails. "W-well, I think that accusation was really unprofessional of you and I don’t think you’ll be getting a — a good rating from me so good night sir!” 

Soul resists the urge to roll his eyes, the retort on his lips halted as she tries to close the door in his face. 

_I don’t think so_. 

Soul is tall and still strong from his time training to make use of his skills as a weapon. Pushing back against the door is child’s play and he steps in, using every inch of his height to tower above Kira who stumbles back and lands on her butt with a gasp. 

“Wait no!” 

His deadpan face is fixed on Kira as he picks up the Death Note and flips through the pages. A glance down reveals names upon names and, more importantly, methods. He gets to the last one. It’s the same one from the article he’d been reading earlier. 

“I — It’s not what it looks like!” Her voice is shrill. “I just — I like trawling the forums and writing down the names?” 

“Right.” Soul closes the book with a snap. “Thing is . . . “ He sinks down to a squat in front of Kira, waving the book. “I know what this is.” 

Any last drop of color that remained in her face drains away. She sags into the wood flooring with a tremble, mumbling to herself. 

Something clicks and a fire that Soul can see himself liking comes to life. 

“You — nobody would believe you! I mean, does it look like I could really kill the amount of people that Kira has? You’d be dismissed as just another crazy conspiracy theorist and I could sue you for libel! Uh, slander?” 

Oo! A slow grin creeps across his face, revealing shark-like teeth that makes her inch further away. “Nah.” 

The indignant twist to her features is cute. “Wha—“

He offers her the Death Note, smirking when she takes it hesitantly as if waiting for him to snatch it back at any moment. “I like Kira.” He says with a shrug. “Forums have been a bright spot the past few months.” 

The flush to her skin isn’t something he decides to comment on. He does grin, though. Her shiver doesn’t look like it’s all fear this time. “Oh.” 

“Honestly, reading through the articles has been my life. I think I sorta owe it to you to, like, further your goals. Whatever they are.” Thank god for his pokerface. The adrenaline high is hitting its peak and his hands are shaking. 

Her fists clench and she forces herself to meet his eyes. “You _like_ Kira?” Incredulous. Ah, so that’s it. 

Soul shrugs. “Look, I’m familiar enough with it that I could recognize the damn thing. Not a saint. Just an admirer of your work and hopefully a . . . partner. If you want.” 

Something vulnerable and lonely robs the courageous set to her face and her gaze drops. Her fingers trace over the individual letters on the Note’s cover. If Soul could see her face he’s sure he’d be able to see indecision pinching her mouth and furrowing her brow. This is no good. 

He forces a sigh and stands up, offering a hand to pull up Kira. She stumbles into him with a squeak and stiffens as he steadies her with a hand on her shoulder (he has her). 

“My name’s Soul. If you want to talk again —“ He jots down his number on an old receipt, handing it over without much fanfare. 

“Waitwaitwait I thought you said you — why would you tell me —“ 

“My name?” Her panic for his sake is even cuter. “I trust you. So far you’ve only been going after criminals and you don’t seem the type to be so cold and intense on the whole covering your tracks deal.” 

Not to mention he hasn’t really been living the past few years, either. So whatever happened — it was a win win situation. 

The door is already closing behind him before her shock wears off. 

“Soul!” She grabs the end of his sleeve, gulping as he turns around. “I. Uh. You know how Death Notes — um — how they work?” 

Soul nods. 

“We-well, I guess it would be good to get someone with, y’know, previous experience with the whole thing and a partner if this ever threatens to blow up in my face?” 

For the first time, Soul doesn’t grin. He smiles. 

_“I don’t get it. What’s your plan here, kid?”_ Mimi’s words whisper over his ear. A shrug is their answer; Soul really doesn’t have one past Kira (he’s alive — for the first time he feels alive). 

—————————————

It doesn’t start slowly. Much like the first time you used the Death Note you both jump in to partnership with a gusto that’s mostly motivated by loneliness on your side and . . . whatever motivates Soul. You can’t say you aren’t ungrateful. Actually, it functions more as a blind spot that you don’t make many attempts to fill in. For the most part, you were just happy enough to not feel like a one-woman army. 

“ _In local news, the Buffalo Wild Wings on Draper Boulevard was robbed by three individuals. This is the security camera footage, which shows —_ “ 

Soul huffs. Even with the screen of the television filling your vision you can feel his eye roll, the barest brush of contact between his jeans and your leg like lightning as he hunches over to look at a notebook. A regular notebook — for notes and the like on local criminals. The Death Note sat on the other side of the table. Earlier on in the partnership, seeing it and being reminded of the gravity of the situation had punctured the balloon of levity in the room and replaced it with a tension that kept you on the edge of your seat. Now, however, it was just there. As was Ryuk but that was another thing. 

“Maaaaan.” Soul slings a lean arm around your shoulders and you subconsciously lean into him. 

The news plays on, a buzzing in the back of your mind and you skooch closer into Soul’s jacket. Life was good. Peculiar, yes, but good. Steady. Find someone who no longer deserved to walk this Earth, write them down, and reap the rewards (which included companionship with Soul). 

Life was good (it’s why you pushed those pesky worries to the back of your mind, like why the golden yellow of Soul’s eyes was slowly gaining a red tinge, and any “odd” behavior of his. It was just Soul being Soul). 

—————————————

Wednesday food shopping was the first time you felt the eyes on you. Distinctive eyes, too, not just run of the mill dead stares from other shoppers buying milk and toothbrushes at midnight (thank god for twenty four hour stores). It’s easy to brush off, though, uncomfortable as it is. That’s where it starts. Those eyes follow you wherever you go from that point on. You can feel them as you pay for your groceries, as you take a walk through the park near your house, as you get into your car, as you go to the bank to deposit your checks. Night walks cease. Anyone could be the owner of those eyes and you find interactions in general — even your neighbor, and you’ve lived next to them for years — strained. Not even home feels safe. 

“Hey!” Knocking. A familiar voice calls your name and you don’t even glance through the peephole before beginning to unlock the door. The four locks usually take less than a minute, but your hands are shaking. 

“Soul!” The door isn’t fully opened yet you’re grinning. Something in your chest is loosening. You’re sure you’d go crazy without your only regular human contact; the stares had driven you to being even more of a homebody than you already were. “It —“ 

There’s a car parked across the street. It’s the same one you’ve seen at the pharmacy, the grocery store, at the park’s parking lot. A cold sweat breaks out across your body. You feel lightheaded. 

“Get in!” You hiss. He stumbles over the doorway as you pull him through clumsily. The door slams shut behind you and re-locked in quick succession, even with your trembling fingers. 

“What’s going on?” An odd intensity sharpens his voice. You can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you rush over to the window to peek through the blinds. 

“How long has that car been there?” Desperation Soul doesn’t like — going by his frown and furrowing brows — makes your voice strangled and painful. “Did you see it when you came in? Have — have you noticed it around town? Felt anything at any of the places you visit regularly? Soul, please, I need to know I —“ 

He barks out your name. Suddenly he’s in front of you, yanking you away from the window and into his chest. It’s warm. Safe. The scent of metal and sweat fills your nose as the overhead light is switched on. 

“What’s going on?” He squeezes you. It’s comforting, so unlike the darkness you had resigned yourself to the last few weeks. You’d been peering over the edge. He’s pulled you back. 

In tears, you choke out an explanation as he guides you to the couch. “There’s eyes on me wherever I go. Nowhere feels safe; I’ve been sleeping with a baseball bat for s weeks and that car — “ 

He’d been growing more and more still beside you, moving only when you can’t talk past the hiccups. Tears soak his jacket. 

Eternity passes as you cry into him, the cold calculation on his face unnoticed. 

Sniffling, you pull away and reach for a box of tissues on the coffee table. Soul’s hand is wrapped around your wrist. An anchor. 

Blowing your nose will never be elegant so you don’t try to make it so. It’s noisy and disgusting and yet you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed in front of your companion. 

“How long?” 

Your imitation trumpeting ceases in favor of a questioning noise. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“The past month. I think.” You sniffle. “I only noticed it while shopping — “ 

“And you didn’t tell me?” His voice is quiet and yet the small hairs on the back of your neck stand up. 

“Soul?” 

The grip on your wrist tightens. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Soul, you’re hurting me.” Sluggishly, he lets go of you. He buries his hands in his hair, hunching over and staring at the floor. Like he’s just left a dream and doesn’t quite know what’s real. Bruises are already beginning to bloom. You hug your hand to your chest, edging away from Soul as much as you possibly can on the small couch. “Soul?” 

He surges up off the couch, growling. 

“You idiot! Don’t you care? Don’t you know how much time you have left!” His hands flex at his sides, as if he’s keeping the urge to shake you at bay. But only just. 

“Soul . . . soul, you’re scaring me.” 

He turns to face you. A calm washes over him as a decisive glint came to his eye. Your guts writhe. 

“Soul?” 

He looks at you. His eyes are dead, the color of rust and old blood, and that’s what shakes you to your core. What has he done? “This is for you.” 

“What — what’s for —“ 

You groan as you wake up and promptly choke on stale air flavored with the scent of moldy sheets, the air freshener doing littler to cover it over. All it does is make it smell like fresh moldy laundry. Ugh. 

The basement tilts as you prop yourself up. Rattling metal assaults your eardrums and you wince, fighting down the urge to vomit — a fight you lose and bile splatters your lap; your head feels too heavy to move and it drags you back down until you’re staring at the ceiling. 

What happened? Nothing is making sense. Everything is running together and the last thing you remember is Soul — but why would he do that? 

“You’re made a mess of yourself.” Soul. It somehow makes the knots in your stomach worse while also drowning you in a wave of relief.   
“Ssssssl.” You wriggle weakly on the mattress; your limbs may as well not be there. Talking doesn’t work. Muscles that are supposed to organize whatever makes words are on the fritz and your eyes won’t look where you want them to. “Wwghs.”

“Stop moving, idiot.” A cool rag runs over your face, collecting sweat and the remnants of bile around your lips. Oddly, there’s no disgust in his words even as he continues to clean you and replace the skirt you’d thrown up on. His hands are gentle. Caring. 

You’re so tired. 

As you sink into sleep you hear one last, oddly gentle, thing.

“This is for your own good. I’ll take care of you.” 

—————————————

It had been some sort of private investigator. Even if Soul hadn’t gotten the Shinigami eyes he could tell you the guy wasn’t long for this world. After all, he dared to go after Kira. That just wasn’t done. 

As the car slowly rolled off the bridge, Soul flipped through the PI’s notebook. Idiotic he may have been, he took good notes. Very organized. Apparently, they’d been airing different sections of the news at different times in an effort to catch Kira. Huh. He didn’t know that the police had actually began to take Kira seriously. 

A large splash interrupted his reading. Finally. With a shrug Soul tucked the book into his jacket and shoved his hands in his pockets. Time to go back home. 

Your street was very suburban. Nice twin houses with nice, trimmed lawns and the occasional trampoline. Soul scoffs as he unlocks the front door. Suburbia. What a joke. 

The basement had been smelling better since he opened the little window and found the old piece of laundry that had been molding behind the washer — a sock. Which, of course. 

“I’m ba — “ He nearly drops the bowl of soup he’d microwaved. “No.” 

Above your head — the number — it had changed. He thought he’d have years. Why — 

He can’t let this happen. It’s not going to happen. 

You come up to the first floor to watch movies and TV shows and the news. You’re allowed a pen to write down the occasional criminal with Soul’s supervision. Life continues (he doesn’t see the pen you weasel out from under the couch). 

No one has come after you and that could be the worst thing but you can feel yourself leaning more and more on Soul and rationalizing him, letting him be the foundation for the rest of your life. 

You make a decision. 

He can see the time ticking away, a little piece of his mind going with each second you lose. When he goes to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee you smile at him and things must be finally looking up. He’s gone for maybe a minute more than he wants to be. Something thuds to the floor in the living room. 

The cup shatters against the floor. Boiling coffee soaks into his socks and he’s bleeding but it’s all background noise. He rounds the corner. 

You’ve slumped over, a pen dangling between your fingers. In death, you’re smiling. 

He’s sinking to his knees and his face feels cold but it’s the funniest thing he’s seen in his whole life so he can’t help but to laugh and laugh and laugh. 


	2. in the bank vault with you

The bitterness coating your throat is the only anchor, the only thing that feels tangible. Everything else disappears in a blur of white and yellow and red and beige, in flashes of light that smudge around the edges, the corona swallowed up by the odd darkness that came and went like a specter. Time flows unnoticed, shadows swirling around the insides of your eyelids, while your mind is slowly stitched onto the foundations of your body. Slowly, the colors seep back into their shapes.

Beige blankets your vision for a while. All of a sudden it doesn’t and instead it’s vague shapes that resembles what you remember a person’s face to look like. Yellow shoves its way to the forefront. You shiver. You would, anyway, if you could remember why that seemed to be the instinctive response. It actually looked quite nice, as sickly as the shade was, and an urge to express that particular thought pushed you to slowly blink as consciously as you could. How did speak? Mouth? Air? You huffed as best as you could. It just sounded like you had pushed air through your teeth; nothing artful or prose-y about it. Fuck. You still don’t know entirely why but there’s a despair scrabbling at the inside of your throat, sinking its cracked and yellow nails into the inside of your throat.

Lips. Lips, lips, lips. Did you have those? “Sllltfff.”

Rumbles reverberate out from the yellow’s larger beige-and-black bits. It catches you in the chest, settling deep like you swallowed a hive of bumblebees.

Is the yellow piecing you back together? You wait — the only thing you can do, really, you may as well be a pair of eyeballs and nothing else — and see. Bits of thought that had been far flung along the inside of your head collect again. The remnants of memory give a word to the yellow that sends a thrill of fear down your spine and goosebumps across the glove-like second skin that might just be the haze but you still can’t be entirely sure. _Soul_.

It all goes dark for a few seconds. Someone’s turned the lights off — they’re back on. Oh, you’ve blinked. It was shorter than the last time you blinked. The shadows that line the room (?) also seem much longer and more orange than they were a few seconds ago.

“Sool. Sssool?” While it doesn’t seem like the smartest move, it’s his name you drawl into the emptiness of the room. “Shhhowl.”

Nothing. Your eyes begin to slide closed, the clouds in your mind lifting away the original objective from your ability to contemplate it. With a gurgling grunt you jerk your arms and nearly howl as they jerk back. Rope — or something similarly rough — keeps your arms tied above your head in a profoundly uncomfortable position. Sensations that had been numbed come crawling back into your arms, bringing back the stiffness in your muscles and the sore ache that you can’t believe you forgot. It feels so familiar and as soon as you remember it you feel it sliding it back into place among the list of things you’ve just gotten used to over the course of however long you’d been . . . here. In your basement?

Half-heartedly, you jerk your arms once again and flex your hands. “Kamehame—“

The absence of the iconic blinding light is a tell tale sign that your last ditch plan did not work, unfortunately. It’d be pretty cool if that had actually worked. Why had that been so tiring?

Your eyes slide closed —

And your name is called.

The colors coalesce to form Soul in all his glory, sitting on your bedside and staring with an odd intensity. There’s a bowl of something steaming in his hands (it doesn’t smell half bad) and memories of this exact interaction come flooding back to you, albeit with different liquid dishes. How long — scratch that, you don’t know if you really want to know.

“Shooulll.”

Drool dripped down the side of your mouth. While your lips still weren’t moving quite the way you wanted to, you were still lucid enough to feel the burn of humiliation and attempt to turn your head to the side. An unsuccessful attempt, thwarted by graceful fingers on your chin that tilted your face back to his. Blood red eyes search yours. Unwilling as you are to meet his stare, you miss the questioning quirk to his brow, the glint in his eye. All that registers is the flush of shame and undercurrent of anger until a touch like ice starts to trace patterns on your hips — your uncovered hips.

“Prants.” You gasp, a question but also an unpleasant realization that you are distinctly lacking a pair. Air brushes against your legs. You’d pull them toward yourself but then another thing becomes quickly apparent to you; your legs are tied down as well. Worse, in a way they’re spread out and exposing everything you’d really rather keep hidden. “S-sssssoul?”

“Ya gotta eat. Keep your strength up.” Something hot slips between your lips, his fingers massaging your throat to make you swallow down the savory broth even as you tried to recoil. “There.”

Warmth slid down your throat. All of a sudden the world was moving in fast forward and you couldn’t find the remote.

-

Soul stood up, bowl in hand, watching as your head lolled to the side. The numbers hadn’t changed — he was running out of time.

He tossed the bowl into the kitchen sink, the clatter falling into the background as he collapsed into the dining chair.

He was going to keep you close, no matter what the world tried to throw at him and pity to whoever tried to keep you away.

-

Sleep came too easy. It began to blend into the waking world so you didn’t think twice when the prismatic dream-hippogriff that had been huffing into your face started to bonk its head against your legs.

Through the haze and colors — it seemed to be morning maybe? — you rocketed back into wakefulness, into warmth and breath fanning across your cheek. Sore arms, too (right, the ropes).

“Soul?” You whispered into the afternoon air, the inquiry instinct and needier than you wanted it to be. A low mumble answered you. “Soul.”

He moaned your name in response, the pale arm thrown over your chest tugging you as close as he could, the sheets rumpling around you.

There was something hard against your thigh.

It usually hurt turning your head too far to the side, but you had to see. His eyes were closed — in pleasure or if he was just still asleep, you didn’t know. Heat was rising from the base of your stomach up and it wasn’t the heat of embarrassment or revulsion.

You press your leg up, his hips moving instinctively against it as a strangled whine escaped his throat. When his eyelids slide open you’re surprised to see that they aren’t hazy or sleep-tinged. No, he looks scarily awake and aware. There’s a trace of pain in his eyes you’d miss if you didn’t know him as well as you did. You don’t have time to interpret it before he’s leaning over you, braced on his elbows and kissing you like he wants you to stay. Briefly, you forget about the firmness pressing against the crotch of your underwear.

When he breaks away you’re both breathing heavily. There’s a flash of fabric and you can feel air moving across your bare butt, the heat of his stare nearly setting you on fire. Your own gaze is stuck on his v-line, the last hints of opposition fading as the muscles in your neck protest.

A litany of pleas fill your ears as he strokes the skin at the junction of your thighs, falling from his lips in a desperate rush. Heavy breathing goes uninterrupted, the pleas unanswered. Instead you fill the silence with whimpers as he runs his hands over your prone body like he’s trying to memorize what every inch feels like, every bump, mark, freckle. It’s worship, and though your head is clearer than it has been it’s still too cloudy to feel anything about it.

The sheets rustle as he moves closer, lifting your thighs to settle your legs around his hips. Something hot brushes against your core. The air that whispers over feels abruptly cooler, like it’s hitting something wet.

“ _Soul_.”

He snarls, eyes shiny. Your gasp is cut short by a moan when he shoves his cock in and sets a breakneck pace, hips snapping into yours aggressively. His stomach muscles flex as he pounds you into the mattress; you have to grab at the ropes. You want to keep looking at his face, to see how he falls apart. He’s doing the same. Crimson stares into you, flaying you alive and exposing all the ugliness under the surface; the clinginess, the loneliness, the way you feel yourself leaning more and more into him as the days go by. His hips snap into yours and it washes away in a wave of pleasure.

He can’t keep the pace up forever and starts to instead alternate between that and rolling his hips into yours torturously, all the while using a hand to work you.

“I — I’m —“ Tears have collected in the corners of your eyes.

Soul hisses. “Don’t!”

There’s no chance for you. His name is like a prayer on your tongue and though he tries to keep himself still to stave off his end he can’t stop the way your walls pulse around him, the way your legs cage him in, the way your ankles dig into his back to pull him deeper.

A whispered plea is all it takes for him to collapse against you, shuddering as he presses a kiss to your lips. It’s desperate and messy, an odd vulnerability you’ll probably reflect on when you aren’t sucking his tongue like it’s your only human contact (oh wait).

Shivers wrack his body as he pulls out. A flush covers his chest. You can feel the cum leaking onto the sheets as your head buzzes with static. Numb, you lie there as he disappears. Eventually, he’s back wearing a hoodie and boxers with a towel. It’s soft and warm against your skin.

With a grunt, he loosens the rope around your hands, easing your hands through the loops to set onto your chest.

The bed sinks as he sits next to you, laying his head on your chest as you marvel at the sensation of freed hands. The muscles in your shoulder loosen.

It can’t be later than three in the afternoon, yet your eyes are sliding closed. Soul is softly snoring next to you.

He hadn’t closed the door.

It was still open, you can see the stairs.

Escape doesn’t enter your mind once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its a reference to the bank w jan erik olsson yall. also this takes place in the middle of the first part.

**Author's Note:**

> so this was a request i got. yeah i don’t know if i was really able to straddle that line between strictly abusive and the type of abuse that is yandere. ALSO i checked the wiki after i established the shinigami eyes as what finally tips soul over so uhhhh canon was meant to be more of a guideline in this case??? i sorta fixed it by it not being entirely consistent?????


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